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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



Storm Songs 

and Fables 



ANNA LOUISE STRONG 

Class of 1906, Bryn Mawr 



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The I^angston Press 

Pontiac Building 

Chicago 

1904 



LIBRaR/ of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

APR 2 1904 

L Copyright Entry 
W/Oi^. tU— /« t 4- 
CLASS ^ XXc. No. 

COPY 3 



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1 c ^r 



Copyright 1904 

by 

The lyANGSTON Press 



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Zo m^ flDotber< 



Storm Songs 



THE STORM. 

'^' OT in the tropic calms I sail, where the fragrant 

breeze 
Blows from a land of flowers over the summer seas ; 
But under the chill of the blast, beat back by the 

Storm-king's might, 
Where the low-hung clouds at noon are black as a 

starless night. 

Fierce are the tossing breakers ; the storm is dark 

above ; 
Yet, in the depths of ocean, the warm gulf-currents 

of Love 
Bear with a silent power my ship to a certain goal. 
Then, through the rain and rush of the tempest — 

on, my soul ! 

Aye! And the arm grows strong in the fight, and 

the heart grows brave 
In the crash of the thunderbolt and the roar of the 

breaking wave. 
There is a joy in conflict, and, after the tempests 

cease. 
Rest for the wind-racked ship in the blessed harbor 

of peace. 

7 



storm Songs 



WEARINESS. 



T AM SO tired, Father ; I yearn for the long night's 
sleep, 

Far in the shade of the forest, where murmur for- 
ever the deep 

Low whispers of shadowy branches, in evening's 
wavering light. 

I am so tired. Father ; I long for the rest of night. 

What do I care for the struggle, and what is the 
joy of success? 

Give me rest in the calm of the forest's loneliness. 

Alone in the silence of midnight, far from the surg- 
ing sweep 

Of passionate joy and sorrow, I long, I long for 
sleep. 

Then, do I hope for a dawn ? Who knows what the 
morn may be? 

Sad or gay, what joy could the waking bring 
to me? 

Is there a deeper bliss for the soul that long has 
striven 

Than thus, to sleep in the darkness, under the star- 
lit heaven? 



storm Songs 



NIGHT. 

p" VEN in youth, when Hfe was happiest, 

Dear Night, I always loved thee. Not alone 
When pain's sharp cry was hushed to quiet moan, 
And I might sob my heart out on thy breast, 
But when the sunlight reddened in the West 
And turned to gray, and the pale moonbeams shone. 
After the fairest days my heart had known. 
In joy's sweet languor, then I sought thy rest. 

And still, dear Night, I love thy loneliness, 
For from thy black unfathomable deep 
Of space, peace comes unto the comfortless. 
And anguish fadeth with the fading light. 
Until for utter weariness I sleep 
In thine embrace, thou all-enfolding Night. 



storm Songs 



DREAMLAND. 

VX/'HEN at the close of day, the fading Hght 

Sinks into darkness, and the last faint gleams 
Of the red sun depart, and pale moonbeams 
Shine through the scattered clouds; then, on my 

sight 
Arise fair phantom-shapes, more coldly bright 
Than a broad snowfield in the starlight seems. 
And in the West the shadowy land of Dreams 
Glimmers thro' the chill darkness of the night. 

So in my heart, when joy's fair golden sun 

Has set forever, oftentimes arise 

The phantom-shapes of hopes, and loves long gone, 

And I sit mourning, when the day is done ; 

Mourning, yet hoping that the eastern skies 

Will some time shine with the pale light of dawn. 



10 



Storm Songs 



THE BATTLE CRY. 

r\ H, HO ! for the battle, the fight is on, 

And why should I fear, tho' the cannons roar, 

And I strive alone, with the standard gone? 
Still let me fight till the battle is o'er, 
Altho' I may hope for success no more. 

Oh, ho, for the battle ! Fight on, fight on ! 

Failure seems certain, but what care I? 
Whether the battle be lost or won. 

Still let me strive 'neath the darkening sky, 
Hoping, perhaps, when day is done, 
That rest will come with the setting sun. 

Oh, ho, for the battle, to live or to die ! 

Rest I shall find in the evening of life. 
Rest untainted by cowardly thought. 

Rest from the wearisome tumult and strife, 
Knowing, whatever the issue, I fought 
At my King's command, as His soldier ought. 

Oh, ho, for the battle, the battle of life. 



Storm Son 



11 



MELANCHOLY. 

VX/'OULD I were a cloud in the burning west, 

In the sunset bright, 
To fade into darkness and be at rest, 

Lost in the night. 

Would I were a lily, to bloom, to grow, 

To die in the heat. 
Life would be very short, I know. 

But 'twould be sweet. 

Would I were a dewdrop to shine in the sun. 

For a moment fair. 
To sparkle and vanish, when day has begun, 

Dissolved into air. 

But why should I wish for what never can be, 

Tho' weary the years ? 
Life seems so very long, ah me ! 
So full of tears. 



12 



Storm Songs 



WHEN THE FROST COMES. 

VVT' HEN roses and lilies perish, 

And violets fade from the glen, 
Then, not till then, 
Pale asters and gaudy geraniums we cherish. 

When the hope of youth departs, 

And ideals fade from our grasp, 
Despairing, we clasp 
The poor little loves that are left to our hearts. 

The flowers of summer died ; 

Little remains of our spring ; 
To that we cling, 
And sigh, and strive to be satisfied. 



Storm Songs 



AUTUMN EVENING. j 

A LL silent ! Not the faintest quivering flutter ; 
Among the branches stirs no murmuring breath. 
A melancholy that no heart can utter 
Softens the numbing chill of death. 

The shriveled leaves hang loosely from the branches, 
The half worm-eaten golden-green and red. 
The sunset, faded, pale, no longer glances 

Across the twilight of the dead. j 

I 
The gray of evening grows, with day departed 
The last faint life, yet Nature never grieves. 
Is death so beautiful, so quiet-hearted? j 

Then would that I were with the leaves. 



Storm Songs 



MOUNTAIN ECHOES. 

(Translation of Heine's "Bergstimme.") 

'T^HROUGH the mountain valley a knight doth 
ride, 
Pensive and slow his pace. 
''Oh, go I now to the arms of my bride. 
Or into the grave's embrace?" 

The mountain echoes replied : 
"The grave's embrace." 

Then spoke the knight, with a heavy sigh: 

"In life can my woe never cease? 
Ah, well, if so early my death draws nigh, 
Perhaps in the grave is peace." 
The echoes made reply : 
"The grave is peace." 

With tears on his cheek he gazed around 

In longing and unrest : 
"If only in death can peace be found, 
For me the grave is best." 

The hollow echoes resound : 
"The grave is best." 

15 



Storm Songs 



LOST DREAMS. 



Y^/^HERE are the phantoms I loved so well, 
The dreams I once could dream, 
The fancies' aerial gleam 

That flashed thro' the Eden from which I fell. 

Is this the price of the knowledge we gain. 
The cost of learning life : 
That we loathe the aimless strife, 

That ghosts depart and dreams seem vain. 

I learned to live in the rise and fall 

Of swift life's rush and hum. 

I turn, I whisper : "Come." 
I call my dreams, but in vain 1 call. 

Life may answer, I cannot tell. 
"Is there a blessing in truth. 
Surpassing the dreams of youth ?'' 

Ah ! but I loved those dreams so well. 



Storm Songs 



AU REVOIR. 



pLASHING of o-olden gleams 

Athwart a sullen monotone of gray. 
Swiftly the darkening whirl of rain 
\^eils the sun-lit beauty of day, 
But shall I think that only the land of dreams 
Shall see the light again. 

Stormy night enshrouds 
All the rain-swept earth and the gloom above. 
But in the gleam that a moment shone, 
Thy face flashed in the light of love. 
Space and time are only the wind- whirled clouds ; 
Storms cannot conquer the sun. 

Only in memory now 
Lives the light that shot thro' the tempest strife. 
.Naught know I of the world of men ; 
I know of love that is stronger than life ; 
And since I love, 1 know, some day, somehow. 
That we shall meet again. 



Storm Songs 



AIR CASTLES. 



tp AR in the eastern skies, 

Forever changing-, yet forever fair, 

I see, before the sun begins to rise, 
My castle in the air. 

In the dawn-shimmered sky. 

Where the low-lying mist the hilltops shrouds, 
The tall, sun-gilded castle gleameth, high 

And turreted with clouds. 



Its golden portals stand, 

Within a world this earth can never mar. 
No shadow-phantoms haunt that fairy-land, 

Beneath the morning star. ^ 

! 

But wdien I seek that land, ^ 

My cloud-realm fades into the sunny day, 

I cannot reach that fair, enchanted strand, 

It is so far away. . 

Yet when the sky is dim, \ 

And when the earth is dark, I gaze afar. 

To see my dream-land on the eastern rim. 
Beneath the morning star. 

18 



Storm Songs 



THE WOOING OF THE FLOWER. 



'T 



IS said that the South-Wind loved a flower, 
And wooed her, long ago. 
But alas, the North-Wind loved her too, 
And he was the South-Wind's foe. 



Notus was gentle and soft and mild, 

And the flower loved him well. 
For he talked of love and he sang and sighed 

In the trees around her dell. 

And one bright day in the early spring, 
When the air was soft, and a tide 

Of music swelled from each budding tree, 
The flower became his bride. 

The North-Wind heard and he vowed revenge, 

And when autunni came again. 
He breathed his rage on the icy blast. 

And rushed to the haunts of men. 

Then Notus fled, as he needs must fly, 
Where the North-Wind reigns alone. 

And Boreas spoke to the flov/ret thus, 
In his softest, kindest tone: 

19 



Storm Songs 



"Notiis, thy cowardly lover is dead, 

For he could not live near me, 
Bnt thou shalt be queen of my vast domains, 

Jf only my bride thou 'It be." 

He took her hand in his icy palm, 

But she died while he talked of love. 

And he buried her deep in the frozen ground. 
And heaped the snow above. 

Then the North-Wind wept sad, frozen tears. 

But the South-Wind never knew. 
And still he thinks he will find his flower, 

As he wanders the meadows through. 

For oft, in the coldest winters come, 

Hours when spring seems near, 
Then the South-Wind roams thro' the wasted fields 

And seeks for his fiowret dear. 

But alas ! ere ever he finds his bride, 

Boreas comes, and then 
Back he must flee to his own domain, 

He must leave his love again. 



20 



Storm Songs 



LIFE'S MUSIC, 



C WEET, magically clear arose the music, 

As softly perfect as a summer dawn. 
Change but a note, touch but one tone discordant, 
The harmony is gone. 

A few full chords, Life's harmony of pleasure 

A joyous melody, a festive dance, 
And then, because we know not how to play it, 

A jarring dissonance. 

The ear will grow with hearing, in the future 
With deeper knowledge than the earth affords. 

We may discern some grandly planned sonata, 
In those blurred, ill-played chords. 

Could we but know our lesson, have more patience, 
To play, just as the Master wrote the scroll, 

No note would seem misplaced, but all, in concord. 
Blend to a perfect whole. 

And when the last clear chord to silence trembles. 
And ends the piece so falteringly begun. 

We need no praise but that of our great Teacher 
Who says to us: "Well done." 

21 



storm Songs 



THE ROAD TO EMMAUS. 

T-J OW many tread, in the twilight, 

With hearts that are crushed and still, 
The road that leads to the valley. 
Away from the templed hill. 

They are leaving their beautiful city, 

The place where their hopes turned fears ; 

And naught remains of their longings 
Save bitter, hopeless tears. 

The Comforter draws near them 

As they their steps retrace, 
But their eyes are dimmed with weeping, 

They see not the Master's face. 

He walks in the twilight beside them. 

Tenderly bidding: "Rejoice." 
But they see Him not for sorrow, 

They know not the Master's voice. 

22 



Storm Songs 



And he follows, patient, loving, 

On to the journey's end. 
Till a light breaks in upon them, 

And they see in the stranger their Friend. 

And they know what seemed destruction 

Was life in God's great plan. 
And they glimpse His wondrous workings 

In the destiny of man. 

Back to the beautiful city, 

Back to the templed hill. 
They turn with joy, proclaiming 

"The Lord is with us still." 



23 



Storm Songs 



HIS PEACE. 

1_J E said unto the sea : "Be still." 

The waters, at His word, 
Grew calm, obedient to His will, 
And recognized their Lord. 

He saith unto my troubled soul : 

"Be still, I am thy rest." 
And fiercely though the billows roll, 

I feel His will is best. 

Oh, restless heart, oh ! troubled sea, 

If thou obey His will, 
However fierce the tempests be. 

Peace comes with His ''Be still." 



24 



Storm Songs 



THE WEARY LAND. 

T N the old days, when sunny were the skies, 

The coming tempest fearfully I scanned 

Dreading- the life I could not understand. 

Then suddenly. I saw the storm-clouds rise. 

The sun grew dim ; trembling, I hid mine eyes, 
When lo ! led onward by a mighty Hand 
I found a refuge in the weary land 

And my heart bounded w^ith a glad surprise. 

No longer through the mists of fear I moA^e, 
For if mine eyes grow dim with blinding tears, 

Ivly hand still clasps the guiding hand of Love. 

Love broodeth o'er the raging tempest-strife. 
And Love shall crow^n wnih peace the future, 
years ; 

And unto perfect Love I yield niy life. 



2?? 



Fables 



Fables 



HOW THE FLOWERS CAME 
TO EARTH. 

Once upon a time the earth was very ugly, for 
there were no birds, the sun shone but dimly, and 
the flowers were all in heaven. So men were very 
mean and very wretched, for how could they be 
good when the world was ugly. And one day, a 
Voice said to the flowers, as they swayed in the 
breezes that breathed through the gates of pearl : 
"Why not go down to earth and make men happy?" 

The Rose tossed her head and smiled : "Not I. 
I am needed here. What would heaven be with- 
out me?" 

The Lil}' sighed : "It would be so cold on earth 
and the men would soil my lovely white petals." 

The Anemone whispered : "Some one really 
ought to go, but I am too frail. I couldn't do much 
good, now could I ?" 

And the Violet said : "T will go, but I don't want 
to be the first. I am afraid." 

But the little Spring-Beauty trembled in all her 
petals and murmured : "I will go down tonight. 
You must come afterwards." 

29 



Fables 



In the morning the woods were white and pink 
with dainty blossoms. The Child, who saw them, 
gathered his arms full, and ran to his mother, cry- 
ing : "See, mamma, what lovely flowers !" And 
the mother answered, "How pretty," but she said it 
only to please the Child, for already the timid 
Spring-Beauties were dead. And within a week 
even the pink and white flowers in the woods had 
faded, for the earth was too cold and too ugly for 
them. And in the heart of the dying Spring-Beauty 
was a great sorrow, not because she had left the 
lovely plains of heaven, but because the world was 
just as dull and lifeless as it had been before, and 
her sacrifice was in vain. 

But the next morning Violets came and then 
Anemones, the gold of Dandelions gleamed in the 
grass, and the white and blue of Innocents covered 
the dry places. Then the Lily said to the Rose: 
"I am going to earth, for it looks like a pleasant 
place." And the Rose answered : "No one will be 
left in heaven to admire my beauty. I too will go." 

Then the Sun, who was in love with the Rose, 
shone down more brightly, and one of the creeping 
things of earth, thrilled with ecstasy, rose on the 



Fables 



wings of the South-Wind, and became a Bird. So 
the world was filled with the joy of melody and 
color, and men were no longer mean and cruel, for 
how could they be when the earth was beautiful. 
Yet, while everyone praised the Rose and the Lily, 
and spoke tenderly of the Violet, no one but the 
Child remembered the Spring-Beauties, and he only 
said : "They were very pretty, but they faded so 
soon." 

And the Rose said to the Lily: "See how beauti- 
ful we have made the earth." 

And the Lily sighed in a self-complacent way: 
"Yes, it was hard for me to come, but I am glad 
that I am here. I hope the world appreciates the 
sacrifice." 



31 



Fa b I e s 



THE CROCODILE. 

A Crocodile lived in South Africa and made his 
daily meals off the natives. And one day a Mis- 
sionary came along, and the Crocodile, being but 
an ignorant Crocodile, and not knowing any better, 
ate the Missionary. Now the Missionary wore 
clothes, and the Crocodile was not used to clothes, 
so they gave him indigestion. And the Crocodile 
said: 

"That queer beast was evidently created in order 
to torment me. How can I believe in a kind Ruler 
of the Universe, who creates animals that are good 
for nothing in the world, but to make poor Croco- 
diles miserable." 

So the Crocodile went down home beneath the 
water, and a good little Crocodile came up to him. 
''Won't you join the Crocodile church," said the 
good little Crocodile. 

"I'm afraid I can't," said the Crocodile. "I have 
intellectual doubts." 



Fa hies 



THE LAND OF THOUGHT. 

A Poet lived in the Land of the Real in the World 
of Men. He had neither money nor fame, but he 
had wings wherewith to fly into the Land of 
Thought, a land inaccessible to most men, because 
of a deep, dark gulf which divided it from the Real 
World. So the Poet spread his wings and flew far 
into the Thought-Land, but he always returned to 
earth and brought with him the beautiful spirits "of 
that country to gladden the hearts of men. And 
all mankind praised the loveliness of the "Thoughts" 
which the Poet brought with him, but he himself 
knew that on the long, dark journey the wings of 
the spirits were torn and their garments rent, so 
that he could never hope to show them to the world 
in all their beauty, as he had seen them in the lovely 
meadows of their home. So his life w^as one long 
disappointment. At times he almost hated the Land 
of Thought, and vowed never to enter it again, but 
an irresistible longing impelled him. 

At last, one autumn day, he wandered too far 
into that beautiful country till he came to the Isle 
of Dreams. For the Isle of Dreams is not far from 

3§ 



Fables 



the Land of Thought, but the way Hes over a nar- 
row strip of bkie, sun-kissed sea, and it is easy to 
pass from one to the other. 

The Poet never returned to earth. For the scent 
of the flowers was so soothing, the soft warmth of 
the Indian summer so peacefully enchanting, that he 
lost his high ideals, and was content to dream for- 
ever in the lovely island. 

But the World kept the Thoughts which the Poet 
had once brought, and as the years went by they 
grew more beautiful. For they blessed the Land of 
the Real and in blessing it, they grew fairer, until 
they were more lovely than the Poet himself had 
ever seen them. But the Poet slept on a bed of 
tube-roses and poppies in the Isle of Dreams, and 
whenever he woke he sighed to himself : "How 
wise I was to stop that useless striving in the Land 
of the Real." 

And then he slept again. 



34 



Fables 



"MAN IS THE MEASURE OF ALL 
THINGS." IS HE? 

A Caterpillar fell into a swiftly rushing river and 
was carried rapidly down-stream. Now the stream 
was spanned by a railroad bridge. And it came to 
pass that a train was hurrying towards the bridge, 
and the train was the Pennsylvania Limited. And 
the train crashed through the bridge, and there were 
two hundred people killed. But a splinter of the 
bridge floated off down the stream, and the Cater- 
pillar caught hold of it and escaped death. 

And the Caterpillar said : "How kind Providence 
is !" 



35 



Fa b 1 e s 



THE PARROT AND VIREO. 

It was on a trip South that the Warbhng Vireo 
first met the Parrot. 

''How beautifully you sing," said the Parrot. 

''Oh, that's nothing," replied the Vireo. "With a 
voice like yours you could soon learn. But if I 
could only talk." 

"It's very easy," said the Parrot. "With a little 
practice a bird of your intelligence could do it." 

Then the two birds parted, for the summer had 
come, and the Vireo returned to the northern woods. 
She went no more to the gatherings of the birds, for 
singing had lost its charm. And when another 
Vireo asked her to share his nest, and sing to him 
all day long, she replied : "Singing is all very well 
for others, but I have a career before me. I am 
going to learn to talk." 

So she practiced talking till her voice was cracked, 
and when her life was almost over, she had learned 
three words. But her courage was undaunted. 

"If I live long enough," she said, "and work very 
hard, perhaps some day the Parrot will be willing 



Fa b I e s 



to give me lessons. Oh, how fine it would be to 
have talent like hers !" 

Meanwhile the Parrot left her friends, and re- 
fused to talk any more. She withdrew to a lonely 
part of the woods and practiced the song of the 
Warbling Vireo. She worked very hard and ob- 
tained little result. Sometimes she envied the care- 
free Parrots who had nothing to do but talk, but she 
consoled herself bravely. 

"Happiness is for some," she said, "and fame 
for others. The Vireo said I had a voice. Perhaps 
if I practice all the time, the day will come when 
she will not be ashamed to associate with me. But 
what a thing it would be to have talent like hers." 

Moral: 

I labour long for another's gift, 

A gift I may not gain ; 
And he pursues for weary days 

The talents I disdain, 
And both neglect the gifts we have, 

And both of us strive in vain. 



37 



Fa. hies 



A TALE OF THE LORELEI. 

The Lorelei rose from her rock in the river Rhine, 
for a longing came upon her to see the world of 
men. She combed out her golden hair, and laid her 
golden harp in a cave of the cliff, and went over 
the earth till she came to a cottage. Within sat a 
man and a maid. The eyes of the man were loving, 
and the eyes of the maid were full of hope and 
trust. Then the Lorelei laughed a scornful laugh 
and went back to her rock again. And she sang : 

"Glad am I that I am a passionless nymph. Love 
is the folly of youth." 

So she sang to her golden harp while the sun 
went down and the stars shone above the smooth 
water. Her song was as gay as the waterfall on a 
moonlit night. And she sang for seven years. 

Then the Lorelei rose from her rock in the river 
Rhine, for a longing came upon her to see the world 
of men. She combed out her golden hair, and laid 
her golden harp in a cave of the cliff, and went 
over the earth till she came to the cottage again. 
Within sat a maid, and her eyes were full of tears, 



Fa b I e s 



for the man had gone, and she knew not when he 
would return. 

''Yet he loves me still," smiled the maid, ''and 
hope is sweet." 

Then the Lorelei laughed a puzzled laugh and 
went back to her rock again. And she sang : 

"Glad am I that I am a passionless nymph. Love 
is the sorrow of youth." 

So she sang to her golden harp while the sun 
went down and the stars shone above the smooth 
water. Her song was as strange as the waterfall 
on a cloudy day. And she sang for seven years. 

Then the Lorelei rose from her rock in the river 
Rhine, for a longing came upon her to see the world 
of men. She combed out her golden hair, and laid 
her golden harp in a cave of the cliflf and went over 
the earth till she came to the cottage again. Within 
sat a maid, and her eyes were dry, but her cheeks 
were pale with grief, for the man was faithless to 
her, and would never come again. 

"Yet I love him still," the maiden sighed, "and 
memory is sweet." 

39 



Fa b t e s 



Then the Lorelei laughed not at all, but turned 
away and went back to her rock again. And she 
sang no more to her golden harp while the sun went 
down, and the stars shone above the smooth water. 
But she sat in the cave of the cliff and wondered at 
what she had seen. And the Lorelei found no 
answer. 



40 



Fa b I e s 



THE MAKING OF A PHILOSOPHER. 

There once lived a Philosopher who was so wise 
that he understood everything that ever happened, 
and could explain a great many things that never 
happened at all. And what was still better, the 
Philosopher knew that he knew all things, and he 
desired to impart his wisdom, that the world might 
be improved by it. So he went forth one winter 
afternoon, to take the precious gift of knowledge to 
the men who needed it so much. And he met a 
Laborer, who was shoveling snow. 

''My dear Sir,'' said the Philosopher, making a 
painful but praiseworthy attempt to speak in words 
that the Laborer would understand. "It would put 
new spirit into your labor if you had something 
interesting to think about. Study the snow-flakes. 
Observe the multitudinous shapes which water takes 
on in crystallization, and yet what harmony pre- 
vails. All the snow-crystals are hexagonal in shape. 
You will never, no matter, how much you study and 
observe, discover a snow-flake which is not so 
formed. Think of it, my friend." 

41 



Fables 



''Are you daft?" said the Laborer. ''As if any 
one was fool enough to care. The snow's just as 
hard to shovel whether the cursed little snow-flakes 
are — what shape did you call it? — or not." 

The Philosopher turned away, sorrowing over the 
inability of the uneducated to appreciate knowledge. 
Then he met a Poet. The Poet sat on a hill-top 
looking at the sun-set, and watching the mists rise 
up from the valley. 

"Ah," said the Philosopher. "You love nature. 
You have observed. You will appreciate the knowl- 
edge I can give. Do you care to know why the 
sunset is red? Well, in the first place, the sun, in 
some unknown way, sets up vibrations in the ether. 
These take the form of a transverse wave motion. 
When they reach the upper strata of this planet's 
atmosphere, But I see you are impatient. Per- 
haps you know all about it. Shall I explain then 
how it is that the mist appears. It is on account of 
the relative humidity of " 

'*What are you talking about," said the Poet. "As 
if I didn't know that the mist was the shroud which 
Mother Earth weaves for the dead river-fairies. And, 
as for the red of the sunset, the Sun has been fight- 

42 



Fa. b I e s 



ing his death-fight with the Prince of Darkness, and 
the sky yonder is the blood-stained battleground." 

The Philosopher turned away, sorrowing over the 
inability of the dreamer to think logically. Then 
he met a Youth. The Youth was leaning against 
a lamp-post, twirling his fingers, for he hadn't 
enough sense to do anything else. 

''Why do you twirl your fingers?" said the Phi- 
losopher." 

''Because I have nothing better to do." 

"This is indeed a wise man," said the Philoso- 
pher. "He refrains from action because he has not 
solved satisfactorily the problem of the relative im- 
portance of various duties. Young man, a youth 
who meditates so long about unimportant things, 
will surely make a great philosopher. Come with 
me and I will teach you the unreality of the world, 
the Infinite Nothingness of the All. You shall be 
famous, and I will go down to posterity as your 
teacher." 

"And what must I do?" said the youth. 

"Speculate about things. Delve into the myste- 
ries of Nature." 



Fa b t e s 



'That sounds interesting, and not at all like 
work," thought the Youth. 

So he went with the Philosopher and in time he 
too became celebrated, for his ideas were so start- 
lingly strange and utterly ununderstandable that all' 
men wondered at him. And his friends said : 

"It's well that he's taken to Philosophy. He was 
never any good at work." 



Fa. b I e s 



THE BROAD STREAM. 

A stream arose in the mountains and dashed down 
a narrow ravine. "How happy I shall be," said the 
Stream, "when I escape from the narrowing influ- 
ences which have confined me during my youth. I 
shall be broad, like the great river. Breadth is the 
one thing needed in life." 

So the Stream left the ravine, and as it passed 
through the low fields, its only desire was to be 
broad. 

"I shall be a great river, and ships will sail upon 
me," said the Stream, not knowing that a river must 
have depth as well as breadth. 

Then the Stream came to the flat-lands that lie 
on the edge of the desert, and the Stream became 
so broad that one could hardly see across, and so 
shallow that the rocks on the bottom pierced the 
surface, and the smallest row-boat could not float 
upon the water. Then the Stream reached the 
desert, and the sands of the desert swallowed it, and 
it was seen no more. 

Yet the Stream obtained its wish, for it became 
a swamp, and the swamp was very broad. 

45 



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